Distribution Automatique

Saturday, April 10

notebook (untitled poem): 2/12/90

This isn't work, I insisted,
If it is work, I will not do it,
If it's work I cannot relate to it
Or will not relate to it,
This is mine and it can't be sold.
Outside it is raining
Outside it is night time
I listen to the whoosh of the cars passing
Nothing has changed for 15 years:
Books not alphabetized, an obscure order
I long ago forgot, an invisible
And fading order- importance vanishes here
And is built again on the outside by others-
But they have to strain or exagerrate things
to make it a saleable article
And I don't believe it, but a fiction nevertheless, no blame
That it makes this acceptable- a good you- rationalized
Approachable- things are harder & harder to hide,
My name is a made thing and a brand name
Making illegible articles, incomprehensible
Noplace to hide in the whole flourescent universe.
As soon as you hear this I am invisible to you
As soon as you answer I can't see you.
I close my eyes in the middle of the conversation
something is changing and I can't keep track of it.
Rousseau thought that he lived to keep the conversation going-
Try to relax- all we have is time.